| ||||||
Stay in Touch
| Call of the Wild: An Exploration of Cumberland Island |
 |
 There are only three ways to see Cumberland Island. Take a day trip from St. Marys, Georgia to the Dungeness dock, and wander around the southern end of the seventeen-mile-long preserve. Peer at the ruins of wealthy landowners, talk to the park rangers. Enjoy less than a third of what the island has to offer. Or, book into the exclusive Greyfield Bed & Breakfast, with rooms starting at $290 per night, and let their staff pamper you by driving you down the island’s narrow sand roads in a jeep to see the major historic sites— Dungeness, Plum Orchard, the Settlement. Or, if you’ve got the spirit of adventure, you can see all of Cumberland Island National Seashore on your own—-by backpacking.
BEACH+BACKPACK=BEACHPACKING Winter is that rare time of year on the Georgia coast when there aren’t many mosquitoes, so backpackers descend like flies on this rare and historic coastal wilderness. I’m with a group of six hikers from the Florida Trail Association, experienced in dealing with Cumberland’s backcountry, launching our journey after an overnight of luxury in the tiny town of St. Marys. Dolphins! Racing, chasing our ferryboat; slicing through the icy waters, playing in the wake. I count one pair, two, three— everywhere I turn, I see dolphins. This is a playground for the Atlantic bottlenose, the ebb and flow of rivers and tides through the estuary. After a dozen, I stop counting. We tie up at Sea Camp ranger station and go through the orientation process, soon glad to shoulder our packs and move rapidly out of the southern "day tourist" end of the island into the designated wilderness area north of Plum Orchard. While campers can kick back in comfort at Sea Camp, less than a mile from the ferry dock – with showers, picnic tables, toilets, and park programs – we’re headed for the backcountry campsites, serene clearings in the forest. Gnarled oaks, twisted by stiff salt breezes, shade us as we walk down the Parallel Trail, a corridor lined by thickets of palmetto. Larks twitter in the trees; lizards scurry underfoot. Cumberland Island pulses with life—and the further north you go, the wilder it gets. Having learned my backpacking skills in the Appalachians, I find this experience unique. Thirty-five pounds of gear doesn’t feel as heavy when the trails are soft and flat—there isn’t a single rock to stumble over, and the rare hill climbs happen only when we reach the dune line. Discovering a cross trail over the dunes, we work our way over the undulating sand hills to our first glimpse of the Atlantic. To the north, the beach stretches on to infinity; silent, desolate, peaceful. Only the pounding of the surf and the screech of sea gulls intrudes. To the south, reminders of civilization fade to dots on the horizon. Easy to ignore. It’s my first step on the Georgia coast since childhood, and it’s as I remember it—sand so soft like talcum powder, decorated with conchs, moon shells, jingle shells, clams, littered with the remains of giant horseshoe crabs. At the high tide line, starfish lay splayed in patterns of purple and pink, dying, drying, in the warmth of the sun. Rest. Relax. It’s what this trip is all about.
MAGIC If you’ve ever seen an armadillo up close, you’ll understand what an unusual creature it is—plated like a miniature rhino, with a pig-snouted nose and perky ears. On Cumberland Island, I saw my fill of armadillo. Truffling through leaves. Snuffling under palmettos. Hordes of armadillo, crashing through camp, bold and unafraid. Good thing they only eat grubs! But I’m eager to see the wild horses. In our camp in Yankee Paradise, set deep in a tangle of lush palmetto scrub and live oaks, we saw plenty of signs—scuffed ground, fresh manure. Walking down the trails is like an obstacle course at times, trying to avoid the droppings. Hours after breaking camp, we’re walking up the main road – a one-lane sand track shaded by elderly live oaks, their trunks a green tangle of resurrection ferns – when Judy motions me to stop. A chestnut-brown horse stands just off the road, browsing the fountain tail grass, the wild descendent of a train car full of horses that Thomas Carnegie set loose on the island in the 1920s. It lifts its regal head in curiosity; tosses its mane. Magic.
We establish a base camp at Brickhill Bluff, spending two days with day packs exploring the north end of the island. Our trip leader, Swede, wrote ahead to request an audience with Robert Shoop and Carol Ruckdeschel, the island’s resident biologists and caretakers of the Cumberland Island Museum. To visit them, we must hike five miles north. But no one’s home today – a miscommunication, perhaps – so we poke around The Settlement. Best known for The First African Baptist Church, a humble white building set under moss-draped spreading live oaks; well known only because John F. Kennedy Jr. and his bride chose to be married there, in seclusion. Its creaking floors and stark pews speak of the days when newly freed slaves gathered here to worship. But there are no black residents left now on Cumberland Island; indeed, few residents at all. Swede and Anita want to find oysters. "I’ve carried this cocktail sauce and crackers all this way…" He laughs. We head towards Burbank Point, where sand bluffs tumble down to the estuary, to the Cumberland River. It takes several tries to find a safe path down to the tidal shore; our experts wander the oyster beds while the rest of us relax in the sun, poke at driftwood, watch for herons, breathe in the tang of the salt air. "They’re dead," Anita said, disappointed. "All dead." "No wonder Dr. Shoop recommended Christmas Creek," said Swede. We look at the map. Six more miles, one way. Three hours of daylight left. It’s unlikely we’ll be eating oysters this trip. Back at the campsite, we watch the sun sink down into the coastal swamps, framed by live oaks, by palmettos. Dolphin play in the blue shimmer of the Brickhill River as the sunset seeps across the horizon, broad bands of gold and orange fading, fading, sweeping day into night. Whomp! Whomp! Judy battles through the night with a mole intent on burrowing up into her tent. The mole wins; she moves the tent. I’m startled by a rustle in the night, a raccoon sauntering through the campsite. We’ve had pretty good luck with nocturnal visitors. The wild horses stay on the perimeter; we can hear their snorts, feel their hooves. We all hung our food bags the night the raccoons were spotted, a hilarious spaghetti tangle of strings and bags. In the chill of the evening, we play virtual campfire: Gloria produces a candle, and we huddle around it as it casts a warm aura of reflected light from inside a circle of aluminum foil. We tell stories. Laugh. Share popcorn and gorp. Backpacking bonds us together.
THE CUMBERLAND ISLAND MUSEUM Pickled sea turtles. A baby sperm whale. A box labeled "cheloid gut remains." The Cumberland Island Museum overflows with preserved specimens, stacks of sea turtle shells, piles of bones, shelves cluttered with jars, drawers filled with birds, moles, and mice. "It’s a working collection," said Dr. Shoop. "We host researchers on a regular basis." Whenever a creature dies, the rangers call. The Shoops respond. They’ve picked up thousands of sea turtles, hundreds of dolphins; whales and alligators, horses and pigs—looking for correlations, tracing bloodlines, deciphering reasons for mortality. Immersed in their work, the Shoops have no phone, no Internet access. They use horses as their primary means of transportation, or an Amish buggy; they tend a large garden, use a cold outdoor shower and organic toilet—a life right out of the pages of Mother Earth News. "And when we die," Dr. Shoop says, gesturing to the clutter of wood buildings making up their compound, the spring-fed pond, the horse pastures, "this all reverts to the park. Gets knocked down and plowed under." A simple life. A happy life. A rich life.
THE CARNEGIE LEGACY The legacies of the Greenes and the Carnegies fall to the other extreme. Roots reach deep for Dungeness, the dream home of Revolutionary war hero Nathaniel Greene. He died before it was completed in 1803, but his wife Caty and family enjoyed the tabby mansion and sweeping estate grounds. Brother and partner of Andrew Carnegie, the Pittsburgh steel magnate, Thomas Carnegie purchased the grounds after failing at an attempt to buy property on Jekyl Island. Only ruins stand today, the building burnt to the ground—suspected arson in the 1950s. But the grand grounds and stately walls recall its better days; wild horses browse the lawn. Plum Orchard Mansion – battered, but beautiful and still standing – best captures the spirit of the turn-of-the-century industrialist family. Volunteer Joyce Seward – a legend herself, with more than 5,000 hours of volunteer time in the past few years – escorts us on a leisurely tour of the 125 room mansion, built for Carnegie’s son George. Vaulted ceilings, unique wallpaper, and eclectic furnishings pepper the mansion, which is in dire need of repair. "We received the buildings intact," said Joyce, "but there were no funds for maintenance. Keep that in mind if you will a building to the government!" Plans to renovate the 1898 mansion are in motion, but paint peels and wood rots until work gets under way. The Carnegie stamp on the island is permanent; family members laid to rest in a quiet forest, their unspoiled dunes, expansive savannas, and delicate maritime forests passed on to the National Park Service in 1971 for the enjoyment of the American public. And enjoy it we do.
IF YOU GO Cumberland Island National Seashore lies seven miles off St. Marys, a town 15 miles east of I-95 exit 1 in Georgia. A ferryboat (fee) connects the mainland to the island twice daily (9 AM, 11:45 AM) but runs sporadically in winter— advance reservations are recommended. Reservations are a must to ensure your choice of campsite; spaces are limited, even in the backcountry. A small nightly camping permit fee applies. There are no facilities on Cumberland Island—no restaurants, no stores. All of your food must be brought in and garbage packed out. For reservations and more information, call 912 / 882-4335, Mon-Fri, 10 AM to 4 PM. For additional information on Cumberland Island National Seashore, please visit their website For information on the Cumberland Island Museum and its research projects, please visit their website or write: Cumberland Island Museum, PO Box 796, St. Marys, GA 31558.
|
| ||||||